“Do you know what a pooka is?” My boss leaned back in his chair, as if appraising me.
I glanced at his computer screen, seeing a wall of text and a blinking cursor.
He was writing a book, and I was helping him edit it. (“You’re the only one I trust to tell me I suck,” he told me. How could a girl say no to that kind of rousing endorsement?) “You don’t usually write at work,” I replied.
His eyes sparkled. “Let’s say I was… inspired today.”
“Oh?” I questioned as I slid into the stool opposite his desk, the stool where I spent a lot of time listening to him tell me stories about filk and top quarks and jaeger monsters and cocaine resistance. There was an electricity about him, ever since he had offered me a job as his lab assistant. An energy about him, that made my breath catch and my pussy drool. Let’s just say that I took great joy in answering “Yes, Sir,” to his requests.
Not that anything untoward ever happened.
He never said anything out of turn, just said everything with that… voice. His marvelous voice that made me want to drop to my knees.
I had worked for him for three years now, with this low-level office D/s. Except I was pretty sure I was the only one playing. Ah, well — gotta take your kicks where you can get them, I guess.
He seemed so pleased today, sitting there looking at me with those pretty blue eyes. “Yes. I… just couldn’t help myself.” He paused. “I’m writing you into the book.”
I stared back at him. “You’re… what?”
Now he looked positively gleeful. “Do you know what a pooka is?”
I shook my head.
“A shapeshifter. Welsh. Usually a black horse that lures men out for a wild ride.” He was grinning. “Although I thought I’d give you a motorcycle, a Vincent Black Lightning. That seems more your style, I think.”
I didn’t know which piece of information to parse first. “You’re writing me into the book… as a shapeshifter.”
“Yep.”
“With a vintage British racing bike.”
“Yep. Leathers and everything. Although I’m going to have to make you a redhead.”
A shapeshifter that lures men out for a wild ride. My pulse was in my throat.
Maybe I wasn’t the only one playing.
“Why am I a shapeshifter?” I asked, quietly.
He looked at me with an intensity I’d only dreamed about, and I squirmed in my seat. “How long have I known you?”
“Three years.”
“Three years, I’ve watched you,” he started. “You’re a submissive.” He said it so matter-of-factly.
My breath stopped. I tried not to extrapolate this conversation, but every desire I had had for those three years came crashing into my brain. I could only nod dumbly.
“But you hide it, becoming what you need to be. Now, come here,” he said, in a voice that left no room for argument.
I nearly swooned, as I stood up and closed the three paces between us. I stood over him, as he was still seated, but I felt like a trophy, a prize, standing there before him.
His prize.
He didn’t leer. His eyes stayed focused on my face. His hands were still. “I could just have just asked, couldn’t I?”
I nodded, blushing.
“And your answer would have been yes, wouldn’t it?”
I nodded again, unable to find my own voice.
His gaze was hard. “And if I simply told you?”
I closed my eyes. “Please… please.” I begged. “Oh, gods, please.”
He let out a satisfied murmur. “On your knees, take me in your mouth. Show me how eager you are to be my slut. Show me the truth about you.”
As I sunk to my knees in front of him, he put a finger underneath my chin and tipped it up, so I was looking at him again. “I’m still going to need you to be my bitch editor, though, okay?”
I grinned up at him. “Yes, Sir, of course.”
Photo by Vladyslava Andriyenko on Unsplash